


Anemone of Mine

by GhostDaddy, skerb



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Ending, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Broken Bones, CHAPTER 2 & 3 TAGS:, Chronic Illness, Crying, Dark, Established Relationship, Fire, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Helplessness, Hopeful Ending, Hospitalization, Infection, Loss, M/M, Sans/Underfell Sans (Undertale), Surgery, Trauma, Underfell Sans (Undertale), Water, critical care - Freeform, flowergore, kustard - Freeform, pseudo-surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:33:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27572356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostDaddy/pseuds/GhostDaddy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/skerb/pseuds/skerb
Summary: Anemone of yours is an anemone of mine.-Sans always hides things; when he's feeling bad, when he'sfeelingbad, and, welp... maybe he should've been a lot more honest with Red about this kind of thing before it literally grew out of his control.My collaboration withArchonGhoulfor the Zine "Lattices+Cracks", which is a 18+ Undertale fan zine focusing on the "main" 3 universe skeletons and how to break them. Filled with angst, sadness, horror, and thrills, you can find the entire compilation for FREE atthis link!!For other fics in this collective, you can see them all retweeted onLattices & Crackstwitter page!
Relationships: Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 104





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [undertailsoulsex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/undertailsoulsex/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note: This fic's first chapter was written for the Lattices+Cracks Undertale gore zine. The 2 following chapters were spurred by inspiration from a friend who speculated on a continuation/alternate ending with the boys recovering in hospital. ♥ Thank you for your encouragement, Soul!! ♥**

A smear of purple and gold scores across the sky. It reminds Sans of pastel washes, or of an oil painting gone out of control. No matter how many times he sees it, he’ll never tire of it. It lightens a burden in his weary soul and really makes him appreciate all that’s happened.

He takes a drag from his cigarette, soaking in the last of the evening’s warmth as the sun sets. It gets a little chillier as the year progresses, something he’d now experienced first-hand instead of only having read it in books.

When he hears Red approach, Sans covers his arm with his sleeve to hide the blush of colour from view and snuffs out his cigarette into the ashtray before Red gets too close. It’s new, something that’s been creeping into his life over the past few days, and it stands out on his forearms like a bruise.

Nothing had heralded it. It was just more pronounced and localised than his usual aches and fatigue. It’s a flush of marrow that bleeds towards the bone’s surface, just barely visible under pristine white. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. He’s good at making excuses.

It’s nothing to worry about. There’s no sense in making Red worried about it either.

He decides to ignore it. He’s had weird bruising before. It’ll heal on its own. So what, maybe Red was a little grabbier than usual and he’d earned himself some marks as a result. He can’t really recall anything too strenuous or out of the ordinary. In short, he bruises with a high five.

As it stands, Red is none the wiser; he would’ve said something by now, if so. He simply inserts himself into Sans’ personal space and sits next to him on their back porch to watch the sunset with him and bum a smoke or two. Sans doesn’t mind. The smell is always better coming from him anyway.

Recently, he had found a small filament poking up from between where his ulna meets with his wrist. Thinking that it had simply been one of the dog’s hairs, Sans plucked it free. It twinged as though he wasn’t supposed to do that, or like it was a sore or an insect bite that was nagging the spot.

Sans covers his right wrist at the reminder. He rubs at it, the tiny barb agitated by his thumb. It probably hurts more than it should, but he’s used to his body being bullshit. It’ll take a while to heal but it’s nothing to fret over.

Red’s a heavy weight next to him. Bolstered by feelings in his soul too fragile and private to prod at, Sans leans against him. Red lets the silence drag on, like the aired out notes of someone’s radio in the far distance or of a train passing by. He drapes his arm around Sans’ shoulders and pulls him close, like it’ll help him savour the cigarette just as much.

“You still feel like shit?” Red finally asks, watching the horizon as he takes another deep inhale from his cigarette. Sans just leans against him, soaking up Red’s warmth. His shoulder aches where Red thumbs it through his hoodie.

“Always do,” he manages to quip. When he catches Red’s look, his grin softens imperceptibly. “No more than usual,” he lies perfectly.

Red’s body jerks with the hoarse laugh, like it’s the funniest joke Sans has told him yet. He exhales long and hard, curls of smoke wafting up into the night breeze. Sans can smell it leaking from Red’s rib cage.

“You’re right. All this fresh air ain’t doin’ either of us any good,” Red jokes soberly. His hold over Sans’ shoulders tightens protectively. It’s likely that Red can see through his bullshit but he’ll wait it out rather than keep digging for answers. Which is fine, since Sans isn’t really in a sharing mood.

He’s sore, though. The squeeze prickles down his shoulder blades, rippling under his bones like blunt needles. Sans somehow manages to stave off the sharp inhale, caught in his chest like a butterfly he means to keep hostage. Sans isn’t sure, but somehow he thinks it’s bruised more than he had thought.

The only difference is that his magic doesn’t normally colour his bones with rusty golds and fuchsias. He’s willing to blame it on the sunset. There are too many colours washed up together on the surface. It’s doing weird things to his complexion.

Ultimately, Red decides that the weather is going to turn for the worse and helps Sans up. While normally Sans would say that he can manage just fine, thank you very much, he feels lightheaded and exhausted now. Maybe Red knows what he’s talking about with the weather. It’ll do dumb things to Sans’ head if he isn’t careful.

Red knows he feels like shit. That’s probably why he can’t keep his hands to himself, guiding the small of Sans’ back as he’s shepherded into the house. Past experience tells Sans that Red wants him on the couch where he can keep watch over him, curled up together while they watch shitty infomercials and laugh at the demos. Right now, Sans doesn’t want to chance it. He’d rather just go upstairs to his room and lie down.

Red doesn’t fight him, which Sans thinks is good but he has to endure an assessing look, protection and concern wrapped up in one glare. In the end, it’s probably not a good thing that Red lets it slide.

Sans goes to bed, drained. The entire universe weighs down on him. It’s like it’s in his bones, shuffling up to the surface to push against everything that he’s made of. It takes longer for him to drift off, unable to get comfortable. Under the surface of bone, his arms itch where the mottled bruises glow with magic. Mercifully, sleep eventually claims him.

* * *

He wakes to more pain than he’s been in for a long time. Something scratches, pulls and presses from what little space is locked away, deep under stiff joints and marbly bone. Sans doesn’t move, but it’s like the fingers of waking consciousness touch upon whatever he’s going through and it’s almost unbearable.

He stutters out a sigh. That usually works. This time, it barely gets the job done.

Red’s beside him, curled up against his back like a boulder. He’s a threat of motion if Sans makes too much noise as much as he is a stable weight behind him. Sans isn’t sure whether or not he can move, but he doesn’t want to chance more aches.

He’s a little dizzy. He didn’t get much sleep, plagued by intrusive thoughts that something is probably very wrong with him. He doesn’t need the breaking dawn leaking through the slatted windows to see a faint glow of cyan and gold peek out from his forearm from where the sleeve rode up. From its apex, a small hairline crack highlights the deformity. It webs out from a single point -- a tiny white fibre caught where Sans knows it wasn’t before.

Whatever it is doesn’t appear to be getting better, but worse.

Sans swallows a hurt noise, a radiating pain that tries to rip it from his throat when Red shifts behind him. Sans would push up towards him if it were any other time, but he’s having difficulty today. He just wants to crawl into a closet and inspect his wrist, and maybe swallow what little pride he has left to ask Red about it. Hopefully, it’s just a tender bit of bruising.

With… odd little filaments to accompany it.

Sans’ throat lobs with a spike of mild panic. He’s going to psych himself out at this rate. It’s better that he pretends it’s all fine, and he and Red can laugh it off later. Never mind that his bones feel like they’re going to burst from the inside.

The pain blossoms when Red reaches over him, and a sharp grunt shakes out of him. Sans curls inward to fight the sudden flare of pins and needles, like he’d just been crushed. It makes Red freeze. Sans can feel it when the tension slowly eases from Red’s body, and he braces himself for the stern enquiry.

“Hey-”

“Ok,” Sans relents. It takes him a moment longer to recover from what just happened. “Maybe I don’t feel too great.”

The wrist is out in the open and on display. There’s no doubt that Red sees it. Sans can practically feel him tense. Without a word of warning, Red quickly sits up, slapping the mattress in front of him when Sans sends a startled look over his shoulder.

“Get up.”

It’s no request. It means that despite having woken up moments before, Red has zero tolerance for any of Sans’ usual nonchalant bullshit. It saves Sans the trouble of trying to pretend, at least. He’s used to his body sending him bad signals, but this is different.

He gets up. It’s an ordeal; hot staticky prickles lance up his legs from his joints protesting under the pressure. When he breathes, it hurts. Inhaling is too much for Sans to bear. Red stays unnaturally silent, his head cocked. It’s as though he’s trying to place the noise that’s coming from Sans’ rib cage.

Sans isn’t sure how to place it either. It’s the sound of something under strain, a small, crisp little crackle when his ribs move.

Red’s eyes then fall to Sans’ right arm to where the sleeve has ridden up. Gingerly, he reaches over, pausing when his touch causes Sans to grimace. Obviously, he attempts to hide it, but there’s very little that either of them can conceal from each other.

“What the fuck did you do?” Brilliant. How nice of Red to think that Sans did this on purpose. He doesn’t let Sans respond anyway, and the grabby bastard takes his hand. The hairline cracks in Sans’ ulna are more pronounced. Red looks, in short, taken aback.

Sans expects Red to say something, though he doesn’t end up breathing a word. Sans already knows the lecture by heart. He was careless. Why hide when they’re together now? He can trust Red just as much as Red trusts him. If he’s hurt, all he has to do is say something. He’s not _alone_ anymore, damn it.

The heavy guilt isn’t enough to keep Sans from sobbing out when the sharp sting of healing magic starts to bind to his bones. Red’s magic is take it or leave it, and Sans feels like he’s drowning and dying of thirst at the same time. It pinches up his arm, hot and leaden under Red’s hand. The cracks in his body lighten with his magic like glowing wires, mingling with the healing pulse that Red feeds into him.

It’s too much. Somehow, fixing the bone is making it itch, rendering it tender and sore. It _burns._ Sans has the overwhelming urge to push Red away and scratch open the wound for even one moment of relief. It gets worse, and he actually makes a wretched noise. He had wanted to bite it back, to save his tears for when he was alone.

Sans doesn’t expect Red to look at him with such concern. He’s too distracted by the pain. He holds his wrist, gingerly applying pressure to soothe the horrible ache. It cracks under his fingers, causing the bone to splinter and chip. Once a source of comfort and warmth, the healing magic seems to be making things _worse._

He’s not this fragile, but he doesn’t know what to do. Red’s staring at him, at a loss. Blood leaks from under Sans’ fingers, his arms trembling uncontrollably.

“Fuck,” Sans grunts, panic rising despite how much he tries to remain calm. There’s a sensation of something inside, wrapped around one of his intercostal ribs. He’s not sure if he wants to confirm what it is. Whatever is inside of him wants _out_ and it’s going to break him apart at this rate.

“Ok,” Red carefully manages, like speaking too loudly will make Sans crack further. He’s gentle when he reaches out this time, less demanding and more coaxing. Sans shrinks from his touch. “It’s ok, sweetheart. I don’t wanna hurt you. Lemme check, yeah?”

After leveling Red with an even, assessing stare withered by the presence of unwanted tears, Sans extends his injured arm for Red to inspect. His magic is sloppy, his HP too low to heal even with Red’s help. He wasn’t built to last. Something that causes this amount of damage to Sans would kill him under normal circumstances. But intent has everything to do with it, doesn’t it? Whatever is disrupting and prying apart his body has taken root inside of him, out of reach where he can’t see. Red gingerly holds Sans’ arm like he’s the most delicate of glass sculptures, carefully twisting it to test the movement.

Despite his efforts, Sans hisses out, trying to quash the grimace before it happens. It’s too late. Red watches his face as he lays his hand over the bloody crack that bisects Sans’ arm, running all the way up to where it joins with his elbow.

“Don’t,” Sans tries before Red gets the idea to heal him again. “It hurts.”

Sans can tell that Red’s all too aware of how brutally honest that is. The fact that Sans is scared enough to mention being in pain means that it’s bad enough for him to freak out about it. Still, he’s stubborn enough to try to downplay it in order to keep Red from worrying. Red nods as though to show that he understands, then carefully turns Sans’ arm over to inspect the other side.

The cracks are deeper, scored thick as Sans’ magic glows out from a single nexus. Something is stuck behind it, hidden by the serious fracture. Red squints as though to appraise it without getting too close. It’s a blushing pink and coiled up like a bud, its point formed into a spade. It spears up through the surface of Sans’ bone, and any attempts to mend it without extracting it is going to end up excruciating.

The blood conceals the extent of the damage. Red could ultimately do what he wants and heal it up, but there’s the issue of something within Sans’ body weakening him. It’s enough to exhaust him and make his bones brittle and chip like old china.

Red’s been staring at him for a while now. They can both hear it: the subtle sounds of a crack spreading, or the soft clitter of brittle bones creaking. Sans is all too aware of it, the seconds ticking down to the next spore of pain.

They’re on borrowed time.

He needs to see a proper healer; Sans has no doubt about it.

It happens as Red attempts to get him out of bed. His body is against him, his ankle twisting in its socket. Something ties it up, saving the broken bone from splintering, but Sans doesn’t want to look down to have his suspicions confirmed. He’s trembling, trying not to move or chance how much time he has left until Red’s gentle urgings force him to shake apart.

Blood plips down his arms, falling from the cracks where his magic binds him. It’s barely warm, cooled by the autumn air. His rib cage suddenly feels too heavy, too open.

* * *

Red sits him in the living room where there’s enough light to inspect him again after a few hours of trying to rest. The healer hasn’t arrived yet. It’s probably taking everything in Red’s power to stay the fuck put. Sans can barely read his face, but he knows Red is terrified. _He’s_ terrified. Every time Red touches him, Sans chokes back a noise of complaint and fear for the unknown.

He can’t breathe. Sans is being choked, crushed and twisted together, torn apart. He’s barely able to keep upright on the couch as Red leans forward and unzips his hoodie. He just wants to rest so he can stop being in so much pain.

Then something snaps, a wet sound of bone cracking, strained beyond what Sans can handle. His cry isn’t muffled this time.

Red’s eye lights shrink to pinpricks at what he sees: a rush of rooted fibres intertwined around Sans’ ribs to make it a bloody vineyard. There are sprigs of leaves that furl out from the exposed bone, hot magic pulsing in desperation to keep Sans together.

Sans’ voice hitches.

“You’re alright, Sansy,” Red says, half-swallowing the fear in his voice. Sans is coming apart as he’s helplessly made to watch, and Sans’ tight little gasps are going to be the last thing he hears. “C’mon. I’m gonna try to-”

“Don’t touch,” Sans shakily whispers out against any offer to help. It almost hurts too much to talk, strangled by the roots that start to bloom into smaller buds like some sick and twisted bouquet. His eyes water. He’s unable to form a cohesive sentence when Red lays a hand atop of his forehead. The term ‘pushing up daisies’ is a lot more sinister now, he brokenly observes.

When Sans swears, his voice is hoarse. Something’s crushing the flow of his magic, interrupting him at the seams. He twists his head to the side, a shockwave that pulses bright agony throughout his shoulder blades as punishment for daring to move. Sans resists the urge to gasp and cry when he attempts to hold back his sobs.

Blood seeps out mercilessly. It trickles from between unmeshed bone as delicate buds tip their way out of the open wounds, making a gruesome garden from his marrow. The pressure is unyielding, the flowers uncaring as Red stares on in horror.

Chipped fragments of bone leave raw marrow in view, magic fizzling where the vegetation occupies it. Sans’ arms only remain attached at the joints thanks to the intricate tangle of roots and tiny vines, imitating veins. He’s barely responsive as it takes its toll on his body, using him as a source of nourishment.

Sans thinks he feels his soul kick into overdrive as though to control what’s happening to his body, but everything itches and bites so much that his mind starts to block it out. The brighter his soul burns, the tighter his chest feels. The thing that’s taken over him grows _faster,_ strengthened by Red’s healing magic and touched by sunlight.

It slowly creeps inside of him, pushing through him and making use of his marrow as spongy wet soil. The process is slow, stretching Sans’ resistance thin, testing the limits to what he can handle. He stutters like he’s robbed of air as precise, miniature viny spirals lattice up and around his ribs to strengthen their anchors.

He thinks he sees the overgrowth just outside of his vision, tucked up in his eye sockets and barely out of view. It would look beautiful beyond it all, had he the wherewithal to appreciate it, like he was an ant looking up to the clouds of white and pink petals canopied overhead. As it stands, Sans’ body fights pitifully as the vines and flowers thrive, poisoning and blotting out the mental image as his bones continue to chip like dry eggshells.

* * *

Red tries one more time. Sans appears barely conscious. A reedy, agonised plea rushes out somewhere distant between them when Red touches the twisted remains of his chest. He’s got to check if Sans’ soul is ok.

He’s nearly strangled by horror himself, but Red attempts to manoeuvre some of the vegetation from around Sans’ shattered rib cage. Peeks of flushed petals unfurl in groups of five, delicate and thin, betraying how weak they appear. The blood smeared at the apex of their crowns only adds to the macabre of Red’s horror.

It’s tangled, twisted and unrestrained, but Sans’ soul is there at the root of his chest cavity, a weak beacon to his struggling life force. Red makes a noise in his throat, trying to pinch the roots away from it with his fingers, to keep it from choking out the one person he cares about.

Red’s hands shake as he struggles with Sans’ whimpering, all suffering and distress. As the noises die down, Sans’ eye lights start to gutter out like dying stars, clouded by small petals as they crowd his vision from within.

_(You did this. You could’ve fucking helped him if you were more observant, but no. He didn’t trust you enough to bring it up, so this is your failure. How long has this been happening? Days? Weeks? And you didn’t notice a fucking thing. You fucked up and now he’s dying!)_

Tears burn at Red’s eyes as he struggles with Sans’ body. He notices how fragile the roots really are, tinged with the colour of his healing magic. Although they remain a blushing pink, white, red and innocent, when he pinches the sprouts they bleed Sans’ magic.

Sans’ soft huffs have whittled away. Small cracks spread up his vertebrae and under his jaw, underlining Red’s failure. Helplessly, Red chokes out a rough noise, somewhere between a broken cry and righteous anger. He’s frustrated, angry and inconsolable, terrified and lost.

The vines and stems of the flowers just continue to slowly wind where they can reach, even trying to vie for Red’s scarred fingers. Orange centres bump against his knuckles, upturning the flower’s face to his breath as though it yearns for the warmth of another host. The sprouts’ ends curl into elegant coils where they can’t grasp like tendrils on a grapevine, pushing out tiny, weak little blossoms wherever they can fit.

They slowly decorate Sans’ body as Red is made to watch in horror. All Red can do is stare at Sans with creeping dread when he finds a sprig of something thin and white trapped within his own wrist amongst the carpals.

How long had it been there? Was it because he forever inserted himself into Sans’ personal space? Or was it when he continuously curled up next to him and pushed their bodies close, just because he liked the way they fit together?

Despite the way Red tries to push at his rising panic, tightness crawls into his chest as he glowers down at the filament with burning eye lights.

It stings like a bitch when he rips it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see the comic ArchonGhoul made for this fic [HERE!!](https://twitter.com/ArchonGhoul/status/1334670687315906561?s=20)
> 
> Note: When I posted this fic, I had it listed as "Major Character Death" because I was unsure, but it's always been in my head that Sans (and Red) are still alive by the time the healer arrives. Just... twisted in on each other because the flowers overgrow and twine them together. :3
> 
> Also, thanks to undertailsoulsex, I've written a continuation where there's a less hopeless ending, hehe. ♥


	2. Controlled Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red wakes up in the hospital.
> 
> The best way to get rid of overgrowth? Kill it with fire.

The world is cruel. By extension, so is consciousness. Both swing into Red’s inner vision and land with the abrupt jarringness of a seesaw hitting the ground. The first thing that comes to him is the artificial light that floods his eye sockets, the low drone of central air ventilating, and the fact that it feels like Undyne had suplexed her elbow dead centre into his fucking chest.

Pain blossoms out. It’s tiny pinpricks at first, but they spread out like invisible vines, needle-like spurs that make his already laboured breath hitch. Then again, and again, steadily turning into a rough burn until Red involuntarily moves and cries out.

Mercifully, he appears to be monitored. The burning clouds behind raw soothing intent, bubbling and fed into his soul so his body relaxes. All at once, he’s very aware of the thin sheet covering his body at every contact point, right down to the fuzzy-numbed tips of his fingers.

His mind isn’t as sharp as a result, not like it had been upon waking anyway. The numbing calm of anaesthetics does that to him, and while Red’s a little chagrined by being hospitalised, he doesn’t quite remember why.

Until he does.

He remembers. In a way, he can still feel it, slowly wriggling through his bones like steel wool and raw silk. His body convulses in a way that makes him nauseous, his soul suddenly and acutely aware that it had been pierced and bled out like a colander.

Roots, blossoms, vines. All the things he’d taken time to appreciate on the surface for their delicate beauty ended up ripping him apart.

Well, it tried to, anyway. It was slow. It was agony, but he was just a little stronger than Sans had been. LV and all that.

Sans.

Cautiously, Red’s brain registers the name like a rarely spoken word. He cracks an eye open to the bright beam of sunlight that falls across his bed from the nearby window. There’s a hazy blur around all the points of light, making the inside of his head drift like he’s being carried away by the tide. He closes his eyes for another moment.

_Sansy._

Red opens them again. This time it’s a little clearer. The room he’s in looks familiar, but he doesn’t remember waking up in it before. He doesn’t see any flowers nearby (thank god), but the entire wall is humiliatingly plastered in get-well cards, well wishes, and drawings.

He doesn’t have the energy to process it. A lead weight is stuck in his soul, something that was once there gone. His body prickles through the painkillers, his body etched on the inside from the scores of roots that left their mark on him. A short assessment finds his body in more or less one piece.

But he’s not worried about himself. He’s wor… He doesn’t see Sans around, who was worse off than him. The realisation of that coils a thick chill around Red’s soul, his throat lobbing up tight.

He tries to speak. He’s not sure what good it’ll do, but hey. Maybe the room’s outfitted with a speaker or something.

Too bad his voice is the audible equivalent of rubbing glass together between his teeth. He can practically hear the way his jaw clicks around an agonised swallow. Seems like all he can express is pain.

Which is fine. He’s used to a fair amount of it. It’s just the vile reprehension of something _living off him_ that makes Red’s psyche squirm.

It takes awhile for him to gain the courage to look down at himself. It also takes time for him to be able to move.

He’s covered from the waist down with a pale blue sheet, crisp and neat and tucked in. His ribs are bare and as flawed as ever -- the spiral scar of cracks on his chest old and familiar. There are a few newer ones near his joints, but they’re discoloured like a lit match had been pressed to them, hot with the soothing tinge of healing magic.

He’s naked under the sheet. His collar is removed, something that brings insult to injury. He hopes that whomever removed it got a good hearty zap for their efforts. No doubt the boss’ll be unamused over that too.

As he assesses the situation, he notices a couple of cords that disappear under his rib cage. One’s warm, the other a little cool, both subtly glowing in a light rosy hue from the liquid inside. The warm one is probably healing aethers, the cool one to suppress the conscious gathering of magic. Standard procedure; he’s had it before, long ago. After all, if he woke up in a panic and decided to shortcut out or attack any of the staff, he’d be good as dead regardless of where he ended up.

Red’s mind floats along. He closes his eyes again, just briefly. When he reopens them, the beam of sunlight bisects the frame of the window, the only indication that time passed.

Still, his soul clenches when his mind goes back to Sans.

Groggily, Red stubbornly attempts to twist around into a more comfortable position. He’s a side-sleeper, prone to spooning, but the hospital bed feels too big without his usual bedtime companion. He sucks in a short hiss, involuntarily clenching down on every part of himself when a spore of pain travels down his spine and loops aimlessly around his soul. An odd smell lingers, reminding him of the remnants of charred wood or fresh grass from his and Sans’ last camping trip.

He puts it out of his head. He’s probably hallucinating.

The monitor next to his bed is one of those low-contrast ones that are hard to read at his angle. Something… 2HP. And a bunch of jargon he doesn’t understand. It’s probably more of his values in code form.

His body protests in a long ache, something that makes Red swear, slow and harsh. A movement reflected in the monitor screen catches his attention so abruptly that Red reels, anxious and as alert as the medication allows him to be. The machine beeps a warning staccato at him.

A window separates the hall from the room. Normally drawn with shutters, Red spots a familiar skeleton behind the reflective surface. They don’t look all that pleased, but he knows that resting bitch face even if flowers _hadn’t_ tried to make them his bitch.

His brother hangs just outside of his view, almost as though he shouldn’t be there. And why shouldn’t he? Could be that the same thought occurred to Edge as it did Red -- that the spread of blossoms was contagious through touch or proximity.

Or maybe his brother’s just not allowed in, and in order to see Red again, it’s the only reason he’s complicit and not burning the world down.

Red experiences a tangled emotion that weighs down his chest. If Edge is here and Papyrus is absent, then Sans is gone. It hangs down lower, an acute sorrow pulling him from the shore down into murky waters. Suddenly, his eyes feel hot. His throat constricts again.

“Pap,” he mumbles, though it sounds more like _faf,_ because his mouth isn’t quite up to speed with his brain. He tries again, and as though his brother can hear him, Edge moves a little more into view. “Wherezie.”

Which is to say, _where is he._

Edge gives him a look. It’s one of those glares wrapped in steely, righteous bullshit, and if Red was a little more alert, a little less afraid of Sans winding up being dead, then he’d give Edge the finger and tell him to get lost. But he’s his eyes on the outside, and Red’s slow on the uptake.

Edge looks down to his hands clasped over his waist. Then he pokes at his phone.

Fine, then. Red settles down, since his body is starting to burn like the medication can only hold back so much of him fumbling around. It hurts on a molecular level, sizzling in his marrow like hot oil.

Despite how shitty he feels, he wants to tug the cords out of his soul and get the hell out of here to find out what happened. Everything is a blur, a winch hooked into his soul by life just dragging him around like a broken-down truck.

Unamused, Red sinks onto the too-flat pillows, his arm slung around his waist. He must look so stupid in here. Idiotic, weak, fragile, and couldn’t even keep what little trust Sans had in him to keep him from dying.

Why is he doing that. It’s just bringing unnecessary pain to the table. He closes his eyes against the hot wash of shame that threatens to trickle down his cheek, and Red wants nothing more than to curl up and shut the world out.

A familiar tune sounds out. It’s the admittedly adorable soft whistle he recorded Sans making for the chickadees on their back porch a few months ago. It’s short, but it tugs at his heartstrings. Red grits his teeth. The sound plays again, threatening the tears to fall.

Blindly, he paws at the little stand with his phone on it, ignoring the signals firing down his arms like a bunch of bee stings. He notices another, more painful crack down his ulna _(just like Sansy’s)_ and concentrates on putting his phone on silent before it makes him break down like a goddamn fool.

His hands tremble. They shake so hard that he nearly loses his phone down the rail on the side of the bed. Thank god for the charging cable. Thank whatever merciful fuck thought it would be sensible to give him his phone along with the drugs to deal with this.

That’s probably the main reason why he’s not freaking out over it all. It takes longer for Red to pull up the screen to tap in his code, nearly forgetting and almost locking him out of his stupid phone for hours.

At the last number, Red hesitates as another notification whistles. He misses that sound straight from Sans. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he doesn’t…

…

He unlocks the phone and immediately sets it to silent. Several of Edge’s texts pop up from the top in a long cascade, starting from, apparently, five days ago. Red glances over them, realising that the healer had likely contacted his brother after they’d arrived.

He doesn’t really remember much of it. Red only hopes that Sans’ last moments were swift when he realised what the little white filament meant. That he was _next._

Red finds himself just staring at the screen, his eyes watering. He can’t read through the tears. For once, he doesn’t care who sees, but it doesn’t stop him from turning towards the wall like a coward.

He wants to ask Edge if Sans is ok, but he doesn’t want to have confirmation that he’s not. He doesn’t want his brother to see, to _really know_ how hard this is for him to cope with. The loss of someone so like him that he’d grown immeasurably close to them as a result… it’d break him.

So he winds down by reading past texts. About his brother and Papyrus cleaning up their new apartment and various nattering, brotherly correspondences. A knock-knock joke he tried to play on Papyrus, only to receive a voice message with Papyrus’ audible sigh.

Red chuckles lightly, a half-broken thing. Edge’s notification badge pings another number higher. The preview slides down.

> \- I’m not permitted to come in.

There’s a silver lining. Edge can’t see him soaking his pillow like some heartbroken, dramatic teenager. Despite the window between them, Red makes sure not to sniff too loudly as he punches in a few choice words.

> ~~* tell me hes ok~~

He erases the message before it’s sent.

> ~~* hows sansy doin~~

Deleted.

He shudders out a pained breath.

> ~~* if hes gone were goin back~~

Nope.

> * this sucks

There we go. That’s more on brand. He sends it, curling against the flattened pillow like it’ll give him some semblance of stability. His soul clenches tight as he regrets answering the text.

Maybe he should’ve let it be. Maybe he should’ve just gone right back to sleep when he realised that he’d failed Sans and that he’d never see him again. His dreams will be the only place he can see his soft smile, experience jokes they had laughed about together, feel his warm touch…

_Fuck._

Red slowly eases the tension from his jaw. The last thing he needs is a headache from clenching his teeth. He ignores the pain as he buries his cheek against the crisp pillowcase, hoping it dries before any of the orderly come to check on him.

His screen lights up again with a small vibration. Red knows he doesn’t want to read it. In fact, he kind of wants to go back to when he couldn’t read at all; just drifting listlessly between waking thoughts and pictureless dreams.

His breath shivers out. It feels close enough to a sob that Red has to covertly look around in case anyone heard it. It seems like he cares enough that others see after all.

He slides the notification down to preview the text.

> \- He’s alive, for the record. In critical care and…

A little light Red thought was snuffed out suddenly brightens, deep in a secluded pocket of his soul. He holds his breath and taps on the preview to view the whole message, trying so desperately not to hope too hard.

But too late, he’s invested now.

> \- He’s alive, for the record. In critical care and none of us can visit, but he’s alive.

Red doesn’t believe it, so he plays dumb.

> * who

_Really_ dumb.

Red swears he can hear his brother’s world-weary sigh from behind the double-paned glass. The tentative hope in his chest swells as big as a bubble, and it’s nearly impossible to hold back. As much as he wants to see Sans right now, “critical care” stands out astoundingly clear from the rest of the message.

He stares at it. Alive. Hanging on. Something in his soul does a painful twist, remembering the spiralled vines and blossoms that cracked out of Sans’ body. There had been so much damage. There had been so much blood. And the root system had overtaken him, holding him together and keeping him propped up like a fragile trellis. He’ll never forget the sounds Sans made, choked off and helpless.

Red swallows hard, blinking back more tears. He doesn’t know how Sans did it, but somehow he’d survived.

His phone buzzes with another notification. Then another. And another. They’re not text messages -- Edge is calling him. Red doesn’t know if he can keep the pain out of his voice, so he watches the call timeout and get forwarded to voicemail.

Then Edge calls again.

And again.

Until he apparently gets fed up and sends him another text. Red barely glances over it between his brother’s calls, until a text message comes in all caps for him to answer his fucking phone. Apparently, he doesn’t have to speak, which is just dandy because Red doesn’t trust his emotions right now.

Fine. Whatever. When Edge calls him again, Red graciously doesn’t hang up on him. He lies there pitifully as he listens to the silence between them. The drugs make it easier to block out some of his usual barbs.

“‘Ey,” Red rasps, like he tried to swallow a cheese grater and somehow succeeded.

“You sound terrible,” Edge says softly. It sounds more like he’s trying to hide the fact that he’s speaking on the phone than anything else, but Red knows him well enough to know that he’s probably experiencing a feeling or two over being able to talk to his shitty brother. Either that, or he’s in shock. “Welcome back.”

Red just grunts softly, because he can’t quite articulate words. He tries to audibly nudge Edge into getting on with it before the painkillers sock him into another dimension.

“This is uncommon,” Edge says covertly, like he’s debriefing. “Not too many cases. Relatively isolated.”

Red gives another grunt, this time irritated.

“They had to burn the spores and seeds from your body,” Edge says abruptly. “You’re due for another session.”

That startles some sense into Red’s poor addled brain. He gazes at his forearm, at the nasty crack with the scorch mark. He detects the scent of kindled plants.

“They aren’t sure how contagious it is after the fact. So far, only elementals are permitted contact with you, and in pairs. One to heal, one to… immolate.”

Ah, immolate. What a fancy word for “set you on fucking fire”. Red shifts slightly, realising just why he feels so literally burnt out, why his marrow is so hot. Why his HP is at only 2 out of 8.

“Jeez,” he says, croaking out the word. Belatedly, it occurs to him how dangerous a procedure that was -- if it could even be called a procedure at all. Something like that causes damage, no matter how friendly the fire. Sans doesn’t have the HP to gamble.

1HP. That soft bastard beat death only to be stuck this way.

A liquid chill drops into Red’s soul. It has nothing to do with the painkillers or the suppressants.

 _“Fuck,”_ Red amends. His body doesn’t cooperate when he tries to roll over, to look Edge in the eye. His vision’s too blurry to be of any use. His chest burns. “He…”

“They’re going to do a controlled burn with a team of healers. If they can’t…”

Red schools his expression -- both at the prospect of how it feels to be burned alive, but also at the idea of Sans suffering through so much and it might not even work. He must fail to hide how he feels about that completely; Edge looks more concerned than he would normally let on.

“Well,” Edge says softly. “He wouldn’t have wanted to suffer anyway.”

Red rests on that cold delivery, staring at his brother. They both know it -- it’s fucking unfair of them to prolong Sans’ suffering just because they can’t let him go. Because he’s their people, Red’s sweetheart, Papyrus’ only brother.

Red averts his eyes, silenced. He doesn’t have an argument beyond that he wants Sans alive. But he knows that’s selfish, a terrible thought that he’ll fight to the teeth for even ten more years. Ten more decades.

_Ten more minutes._

“Brother.”

The word startles Red back to the present. He hunches inward, registering everything all at once. Remembering every place that they’d visited together. Their hardship, their ups and downs.

“He’s a fighter,” Edge says, conviction in his voice. It sounds oddly tight for how low he’s speaking.

That’s Red’s sweetheart. He gives a shaky grin. He’ll blame it on the drugs later.

“Yeah.”

Edge doesn’t linger, though he seems to hesitate at the last moment before disappearing from view. When he says “I’ll visit you later,” Red hangs up on him as fast as he can.

This new information haunts him. The room seems so quiet that Red’s mind starts to imitate the small crackle of flames instead of processing it as the hum from the lights. He watches in silent agony as the sun eventually passes the window and the painkillers lull him into a half-awake state, his mind firing off in aimless worry.

He wants to see Sans. Then again, the last time he saw him, he didn’t. He never wanted to see Sans under such duress, in such pain.

He huddles in on himself, his body jolting in complaint. Then he relaxes, groggy and exhausted.

* * *

When he next wakes, the orderly is in. A pair of fire monsters look down at him on the bed, living flames of pale rose and vibrant orange. They’re faceless monsters with no accessories to discern any semblance of expression like Grillby attempts.

As cautious as he is, Red is too exhausted to put up a fight, though he makes a half-hearted attempt. He draws from his reserves and watches as a brittle bone attack forms and crumbles before his eyes, the icy-chill flooding his soul. He huffs a soft gasp as the rose-coloured nurse adjusts the meterage on the dosage, reminding him for the third time, apparently, that he’s not in any danger.

They check him -- still at 2HP, but stable, they say. They natter back and forth but Red doesn’t pay attention unless he hears something a little odd. It’s hard to keep focused. Nurses generally gossip when their patients are out of it, but he’s not _that_ drugged up.

He makes an inquisitive little noise as he’s manoeuvred around to his back. His gaze falls upon a wheeled cart filled with supplies; a bag filled with the same crimson brightness as his magic.

Great. He knows what this means.

He had a feeling when Edge told him that he wasn’t allowed in. As the nurses work to prep their station, tension floods his body. A wordless question huffs out of him when he follows the cords of aethers back to the machine, where a cap is unscrewed and the new medicine is connected.

As it’s twisted into place, Red can feel the distinct gush of warmer healing magic enter his body, the smack of intent raw and comforting like a hearty slap on the back or a shot of hard liquor.

“Izeo.. k…?” he slurs, hating the way he can’t form words. He turns his head away from the two sunspots with a slight grimace. The persistent warmth is almost uncomfortable.

 _“Difficult,”_ one of them says. It’s hard to figure out who. Resigned, Red closes his eyes.

 _“Difficult,”_ the other echoes in a slightly different tone.

It tends not to matter. Apparently, it’s fine to keep their patients in the dark if they’re already hopped up on drugs.

There’s a gentle warmth, distinct from the aethers, that starts to envelop him. It wraps him up, tucks him in, soothing his worries as much as it does fully drown him. He feels upside down, drifting as a conflict of sensations begin.

His HP ticks up a point. Then another. Red involuntarily swallows against the burst of magic, a sweet, cloying thickness that almost smothers. Another point rolls up, then another, until he’s swimming in a freefall of healing magic. It’s almost euphoric.

Red tries to speak. Of course, it doesn’t work. He parts his teeth, the sensation of it numbed and detached. The fire monsters have their hands on him in different places; his ribs, his hip, his knee, his throat. It should terrify him, but the duality of it all makes him feel as though he’s being pushed down into an impossibly plush mattress.

“Want ‘im,” Red tries to say, but his words slur together so badly that it barely sounds like passable language. “Talk withum…” he mumbles. Involuntarily, his breath hitches like he has to cough. He almost does. The hand on his throat isn’t tight, but he can’t breathe. It’s like there’s too many fire monsters in the room for the limited oxygen and magic in the air to supply him.

His HP maxes out at 8. Oddly, it slips down a point, then another. His senses blur together, tasting colour, smelling sound, seeing touch. Red finally manages a weak cough, the plushness of the mattress engulfing him like a harmless inferno.

Until, he realises, that’s precisely what it is. That would explain the scent and sounds, the overwrought feeling of being burned from the inside. Deliriously, Red thinks of spicy foods and has a soft laugh.

Another point slips down. 5HP left. Though he’s still flooded with the same amount of healing magic, apparently the nurse (whichever one it is) isn’t so skilled that he doesn’t take damage from it. Or maybe he is. Red doesn’t know; he thought it’d hurt a lot more than this. You know, fire and all.

The tickle of flames becomes a little more known to him. Fires drift along his form, scouring bone until sweat starts to bead up on his body. At the cracks, steam wisps, a pinching pain that fizzles out as soon as it catches.

After a moment, the flames recede, the twin fires seemingly looking down at him.

 _“Breathe,”_ one of them urges.

He didn’t even realise that he’d stopped and held his breath. Red exhales in short little gasps, every movement of his ribs achy and hot. When he draws in for air, it’s like the flames brighten. He doesn’t quite cough, but he tries again.

 _“Better?”_ one says.

_“Better.”_

After a few laboured breaths, he’s beset upon once more. The fire is not unkind, but it’s clinical and precise. It searches its way through him, long licks of rose-tinged gold fluttering through his bones and steaming through his marrow. It both hurts and is comforting at the same time, a satisfaction that’s coaxed from Red’s poor body when they stop again.

Something else catches, close to his soul. He thinks of a sprig of dry grass kindling next to a bonfire and grimaces. Another couple of points trickle down and Red feels a sudden surge of panic when his HP rolls under 3.

_“Successful?”_

Red breathes in, unsteadily trying to level one of his best glares their way. He’s poised, but his body refuses to obey him, curled tightly in their hold.

_“Indeed.”_

Success. Something Red’s only experienced by proxy thanks to his brother. His throat feels dry, his entire body baked and lightly scorched. Fire monsters are a little unaccustomed to paying that any mind, but the lingering weight is dense and heavy on the spots they held. Lightly, Red tries to swallow, the remnants of soft, white smoke curling up from his teeth.

“‘Anks,” he mutters, his voice dry as dust. His mind reeling, it takes a moment for him to recognise what happened.

 _“No more growths,”_ one of them says helpfully.

_“Procedure successful.”_

The two beam brightly at him, flecks of amber and rose-coloured embers popping off of them in a self-congratulatory way. Red is admittedly a bit too burnt out to appreciate the magnitude of what that means. He’s still trying to focus on the pair, still attempting to put one and two together.

It’s only when he’s given a bit more healing magic do things slide into place. His HP registers on the precipice of knocking it down to his final digit, but it just warbles in place like a bead of oil on a hot skillet. The bright crimson aether has probably got something to do with it, keeping him stable as they worked. Admittedly, Red’s a little impressed by that. Intent is important to their kind, after all.

Still, he started off with max HP and their healing session had been… brutal, at best. He can only figure how bad poor Sansy’s got it.

Only elementals are permitted contact with Red -- and by extension, Sans.

He needs to see him. He needs to touch him, to curl up at Sans’ side, to whisper to him that it’s ok, he didn’t kick it. Red’s fingers don’t move when he tells his body to get up. The magic between his joints is molten, his body stinging with pain.

He tries to call for him instead, thinking that since, hey, they’re more or less the same person, thinking _at_ Sans will work, right? But pain has a way of fucking with Red’s head. The world simultaneously moves in slow motion and fast forward. His senses fail, his eye lights guttering out between the movements he forces himself to make.


	3. Chickadees

The next time Red wakes up, not a lot of time has passed. The fresh painkillers are like a splash of water over his poor naked bones. Or that might actually be water. Fire elementals are swift, but water elements tend to have a gentler hand, so Red isn’t quite sure, but nor does he particularly care.

Another pair of elementals cleans him, as silent as the first. Their hands are blessedly cool, drawing a soft, appreciative sigh from Red’s teeth. His mouth feels dry as sand and he can taste his own dust.

From what he can gather, the nurses tending him are the ‘pitcher’ sort of object heads; meaning that the nurses use crucibles to protect the integrity of their element, saving a little bit of themselves in case their bodies start to evaporate. The room is air conditioned to protect them as a result, which Red doesn’t mind.

After experiencing the heat-blast healing session, some chilly aftercare is great. They’re particularly gentle about it, doing things that the other elements couldn’t do. Namely, wrap the spots on his body that had begun to fracture under the roots’ pressure.

His HP lingers somewhere above 4. Red can’t quite focus on it, raspy, dry sighs escaping him with the relief the nurses’ hands bring. They’re careful to move him slowly, so much that the raw burning only aches. The trickling of water laps at his consciousness, the healing spring comfortable and soft.

He sighs out once more, attempting to clear his vision with a conscious blink. There are clouds around the lights again, his head swimming with the lingering effects of the aethers. He can barely see, but oddly enough, it doesn’t make him tense. All his instincts to flail and get the hell out of here have blessedly melted away.

That is, until he remembers again, _Sans._

Whatever’s in the aethers this time makes Red more sleepy than groggy. He barely manages to turn his skull, trying to make heads or tails out of the reflection in the mirror beside him. Why this part of the hospital has a full wall-sized mirror is beyond him.

From what Red can see, he’s a fucking mess, though he can’t quite see his head to assess what damage cragged its way through his body. Though obscured by the aether-dispensing machine next to him, Red figures it’s him. Why else would there be so much red?

There’s a bare haze of magic in his joints, so much that it should be worrying. Washes of crimson, healing green and sky blue flood his senses so abruptly that Red has to close his eyes. As he does, his gaze passes over his forearm, cracked and brittle between delicately wrapped gauze and healing plasters. Some of them look like they’ve got cartoon shapes printed on them.

It tends not to matter. Consciousness is a fleeting thing after surgery, or braising, or whatever the hell you call what Red went through. It’s blissfully cool in the room, and it doesn’t quite smell as much like spent campfires as it did before.

Easily, he rests.

* * *

The next time Red awakens, he’s still chilly, which is great. He thinks he never wants to be warm again, or at least to the point where he feels permanently baked.

His vision is a little clearer than before. As he looks around, taking stock of where he is, Red realises that it’s not a mirror next to him, but a full panel of glass, one that serves as a partition. He can’t see anything more than that, but his pictures and get-well cards from the previous room seem to have followed him here. He grimaces, but even that hurts.

He recognises the figure beyond the wall, the red-soaked bandages, bright, fresh magic leaking from their wounds. A myriad of cords are hooked into their body, tucked under their ribs so bright the cyan is almost white.

Red’s soul skips in the same beat as it shrinks in on itself.

_Sans._

His voice is locked away, scorched and dry as dust. He’s as awake as he’ll ever be, staring wide-eyed at the elementals on the other side of the glass. Sans looks so fragile, so broken -- so hanging on by a thread that the spool that unwinds is nearly empty.

Red lurches forward, his only reward a staccato beep from the machine next to him and a faint hiss as it dispenses. He grimaces as the wind is taken out of his sails, pain blurting out of the haze of medication so much that his vision blacks out for a moment. He barely makes it two inches off the cot before he sways and his head hits the pillow.

It hurts, but it hurts more to see Sans like that, trapped in a cage with strangers. He yearns to be near to him, and even if Red can’t touch him, he wants to lay down as close as he’s able, to whisper to Sans that he made it, it’s ok.

It’s too much to force himself. It fuzzes out his thoughts, concentrating only on the pain that prickles out from his soul.

After a few moments, Red realises that he’s been staring off into space, enamoured by the time drifting between the beats of his soul. He can almost hear the shifting difference between the machine managing his medication and the soft huffs beyond the glass.

Is Sans awake? A proprietary squint through the glass, as far as his vision allows, tells Red that he’s not. There are no more than two fire monsters in the room with Sans, and no fewer than four water elementals for cooling and resuscitation. If Red didn’t know any better, he can feel the warring tension of those opposites bristle like cats and dogs.

As brutally tired as his poor bones are, Red shuffles slightly. The painkillers work their magic, though when Red moves, he makes soft grunts of effort until he can crane his neck up to survey the other side of the room he’s in.

There’s another window -- and of course, his brother is hiding behind it. This time he’s got company.

Papyrus. He’s an open book compared to Edge, but there’s something haunted and wretched hidden in his eyes. He looks defeated, his shoulders slumped, his scarf frayed like he’s been worrying at it the entire time. Somehow, he looks smaller. Edge stands unnaturally close to him, his arm just barely touching Papyrus’ shoulder at his height. It doesn’t take a genius to know that Edge’s got his hand on Papyrus’ back as though he means to keep him together.

Red holds his look, though guilt wracks through him, free and burgeoning like a torrent. He already blames himself, but to see Papyrus’ excruciatingly poignant gaze makes Red want to curl inward and never look at him again. He fights the urge to do just that, but it’s hard to keep twisted around.

So he sinks down again, everything in his soul devoid of light and certainty. The fact that Sans is alive doesn’t mean anything if he can’t be healed, and if Red feels as shitty as he does, had lost as much HP as he did, then he’s not sure what to hope for.

It’s some time that those thoughts harass him, evoking spear-like jabs at his sense of direction, the protective streak he’s got withering into decay. He hates himself. Well, that’s funny, considering he didn’t really like himself much in the first place, but in his heart Sans always made him feel somewhat tolerable.

_Sans._

He’s not sure if he should look back. Truth be told, he’s been following the bright shadows that bounce off the rail of his bed for the past hour or so that he’s been awake. The elementals move in an eerie waver beyond the glass, a bare distraction. But the reflection of their sombre dances don’t give him any hope.

If Sans goes, it’ll hurt. It’ll break him if Sans Falls Down and shatters beyond the glass, just out of reach, without a goodbye, without a tender touch. Just leaving him with a horrified, guttural last plea and the wretched feeling of something slithering in his bones.

It hurts more to realise that than Red cares to admit to himself. Warmth returns to his eyes, brimming with useless, stupid tears. He feels their brothers’ eyes on his back like hot knives, like their bonds from him have already severed even though Sans isn’t dead yet.

The nurses are trying their best. Red has a feeling their best will never be good enough for him as far as Sans’ life is concerned.

* * *

It’s easy to fall into a state. Red’s only partially pried out of his staring contest with the aether monitor, watching as his HP drunkenly warbles up from 5 to 6 over the slow course of another hour. At the same time, Red’s body complains as his HP works overtime to heal him.

He doesn’t feel hungry. He’s not thirsty. There’s a hole where his soul is, punctured deep by cords, meds, and the brittle fragment of hope that somehow, Sansy’ll pull through. He’s suspended in time as he races towards the end, and it’s as though Red doesn’t have any control of it. He can’t control anything; he can only wait.

He understands now how partners Fall after their loved ones pass away. Sans isn’t even gone yet and Red’s already falling the fuck apart.

A garbled voice somewhere outside his periphery sounds out, but Red doesn’t care to hang onto any of the words as the meanings fall through his fingers. It’s not a voice he knows, so he wants to push everything unfamiliar out of his head.

His brother’s voice replies, stern yet calm. It radiates a careful hope that’s too much to bear, wrapped up in Red’s insecurities and fragile resolve. Maybe, he thinks, they’re telling Edge that Sans isn’t going to make it. Perhaps it’s better that way. Edge has a way with dulling the shock that comes with painful news.

Red follows the bandages on his arm with his weary eyes, pinpointing every hairline crack, old scar, and blemish. He thinks of the blood and bruises in the other room, a horrorshow painted upon his lover’s body.

He wants to see him.

It takes a lot of effort to shoulder himself up to move. Red’s entire body is one huge ache, throbbing incessantly as he pivots his hips. He tries to find even one position that doesn’t feel like he’s going to bruise or slip apart at the cracks.

A warm hand carefully eases him down again despite his muffled swears. Red grits his teeth, wanting nothing more but to lash out at who would prevent him from moving. It’s not quite clear who’s beside him until he sees a wash of crimson fabric, dark faded jeans and probably, if he squints, one of his favourite t-shirts.

Red’s mouth feels like gravel so much that he hesitates to speak, if only because it might result in lost teeth. “Pap..?” He wants to say something snarky about how Edge better not stretch out his shirt for the sake of sentimental bullshit, but the words tumble away like fine sand in the breeze. He wonders how long his brother’s been here with him.

The water elemental warbles something he doesn’t quite understand. Edge’s hand rests on Red’s side, as careful as it is proprietary. Red’s ribs ache under his touch, but he doesn’t flinch away. It’s more a reassurance that his brother is allowed to be near him, that Red isn’t contagious anymore, that Edge is _safe._

He tries to focus on what’s happening around him. They ask him a question, one that he doesn’t understand. Something about tethering, risk and reward. His brain doesn’t know how to decipher what’s being said to him.

They say the “risks” outweigh any kind of success, and Red has a difficult time parsing the words. He thinks he can feel the anxiety radiating from his brother, how he’s trying so hard not to press him down onto the mattress like he thinks Red has the energy to fight him.

But no, for once, he doesn’t. Red trusts his brother to know what’s best for him, even though he’ll bitch at him later for it. He always does. Even when he’s on the edge of delirium, Red feels a whole lot safer with his family nearby.

_He’d feel a lot safer knowing if Sans will pull through._

Groggily, he opens an eye. Edge’s hand soothes him, his touch warm on his back. Apart from the gentle waft of air conditioning, it’s the warmest he’s felt in what feels like ages. It’s dangerously close to being hot, something Red doesn’t feel he can handle after the fire.

As shitty as he feels, he knows this must hurt Edge beyond all words. Red has the blissful ignorance of not remembering, or even being aware of what had happened to _him,_ but knowing what Sans went through… Edge must be tearing himself apart on the inside. The despondent look Papyrus wears will haunt Red for the rest of his life. And Red?

Red will never forgive himself, even if Sans lives.

~~When.~~

“Brother,” Edge says softly. It’s a little far away, as though he’s backed off. Either that, or Red is losing his battle with staying conscious. “They propose a tether. To help Sans.”

“Sans,” Red echoes, though his voice creaks.

“Yes. They have a hope that…” Red’s will crumbles a little, the words slurring together, but he manages to hold on. It’s important. “…and that will keep Sans from Falling during the procedure. Neither myself or his brother are compatible.”

Edges speaks as though Sans hasn’t Fallen yet, which is something Red hadn’t considered. He raises his head a little, prompting Edge to cup the back of his skull, so he lays it back down.

“Yeah.” Who the fuck knows what he’s agreeing to -- but as long as Sansy gets outta this alive and healed, he’ll do anything at this rate.

Much to say, Edge’ll do anything to keep _him_ alive, too. If there was a risk that Red couldn’t handle it, he would never even bring the procedure up. It’s almost as if his brother doesn’t know how much he’s onto his sentimental crap, that he’d risk Sans for a chance to keep Red safe. He must’ve been agonising on the decision to bring it up ever since the notion was presented to him.

And, welp. Turns out Red’s one of those idiots that would throw himself into the fire to save Sans. Literally.

Voices natter even as Red slogs through his weary thoughts. He tries to nod, to give any indication that he’s ok with whatever happens, as long as it means that Sans lives. The notion that one of the risks that he’d be dragged down into the fire and pain again along with Sans never occurs to him until Edge leans over him.

A fragile squeeze. Red can feel his brother trembling, trying to keep together. He must be scared as fuck; he doesn’t get the luxury of blacking out every half hour or so that Red does. Red’s mouth ticks in a vague kind of smirk, his body aching like an exposed nerve. He doesn’t complain one bit as Edge hovers over him, trying not to hurt him but not quite succeeding. He just wants a fucking hug. Some semblance that things will be ok and Red will punch him for that later.

Red makes a note to do so, once he gets proper use of his hands back.

The guilt is strong, even though everything seems to be settled. Red can’t ignore the brusque wipe that his brother does over his face. It either looks like a sloppy salute or the kid’s been crying.

“‘L be ok,” Red rasps, meaning that everything will be fine, but it sounds more like he’s reassuring Edge that _he’s_ going to be ok. He doesn’t correct it; Edge can have this. After everything, the guy’s probably in relative shock. “Burg after… k?”

Edge nods. Funny, he looks younger now. He’d better not be dying, Red thinks. It takes a lot of effort to raise his arm, so much that Edge looks a little alarmed, but he manages to give him the finger.

After all, that’s what you do before going into surgery, right? Hell if Red knows.

Just because he’s full of reckless abandon doesn’t mean he isn’t scared. Red’s soul gives a pitiful, longing squeeze when Edge finally lets him go like he doesn’t want to.

The nurses nearby are careful to set Red’s arm down and make him more comfortable, adjusting the sheet as necessary. To spare his brother the slight panic he feels over being separated from him again, Red looks to the glass partition, to Sans laying in his cot on the other side.

Seems like the fire elementals have begun preparing whether Red gave his consent or not. A cold trickle of fear prickles around the needle in his soul at that, forcing Red to be more aware of things than he prefers to be. He doesn’t want to be awake for this. Not like the last time.

“Hey-” he rasps even as the nurses wheel his bed through the door. The spackle ceiling makes for terrible scenery, but the other room has got his soul pounding hard and fast. He can smell it -- detect the soft, warm, vibrant scent of live greenery.

 _“No worries,”_ one of them says.

_“No worries.”_

Oh good. At least it’s the two he’s familiar with. He’s used to their gentle touches, and while they’re efficient, it does nothing to soothe Red’s poor nerves. He concentrates on calming himself, his gaze flitting to the aether monitor and his max HP on display. One of the dials is switched off, and going by the rising, acute pain spreading out from his extremities inward, Red has a feeling that it’s the painkillers.

He takes a shuddering breath, on the cusp of a rough swear.

_“Please hold.”_

_“Hook up initialised.”_

The flurry of elements around him is distracting, but not enough for Red to miss the fact that he’s been wheeled directly beside Sans. Red tenses as much as his body allows, his eye lights hazy and small.

Cracks litter Sans’ body, webbing out in small bloody fissures that spread into harsh cracks. A wave of fear courses through Red enough when he sees the buzzing hum of cyan magic in Sans’ body, the tinge of healing making the vines crisp and green. Red swallows hard, then clenches his eyes shut when cold hands lay upon his chest and shoulders to keep him down.

They’re efficient. It’s bruised and complains loudly, magic buzzing in his skull, but the wet pierce slicks effortlessly through the membrane of his soul. Nothing trickles inside, no cool aethers, no warm healing magic. Just a foreign tug as something is screwed to the end, hooked through one of his ribs, and carefully taken to the side. Graciously, his soul remains in place, but it throbs like an open wound.

As Red’s breath shivers out, the bright panic mixes with the halos of light around him. He thinks he hears the elementals talking, but they speak so strangely that Red can only pick out a few words.

_Tether. HP. Replenish. Healing. Shifts. Fire. Plants._

_No room for error._

Red blinks back a couple of tears. There’s a low, guttural noise from next to him, but he doesn’t want to think it came from Sans. A short tug makes him echo the noise, indignant and afraid, but mostly curious. The tug doesn’t feel physical at all. It’s like…

Red looks to the monitor where his HP is on display. There’s a second number next to it that reads 0.4HP. No name is attached to it besides “System 01”. The label above his own values reads “System 03”.

A fresh warmth settles over him, but it’s only due to the fire elementals drawing near to peer at the monitor. They interact with a few options on the screen, only proving to make Red even more uncomfortable, like he’s under scrutiny for having such a low constitution. But then again, Sans’ is much lower.

He peers next to him. The cord from between his ribs has been affixed under Sans’, like they’re meant to be tied together. Red’s brain is slow to figure it out -- he hasn’t had the opportunity to pay attention. The painkillers made his head woozy like it’s stuffed full of cottonwood and bulrushes. Now though, he kind of sees what they’re going to attempt.

It takes a moment to register after one of the water elementals turns a spigot on his end of the hose, then adjusts it so it’s not as loose. A keen, almost tightening sensation pulls at something deep within Red’s soul, and for a moment his vision swims. Colour dancers before his eyes in a sharp loop, like he’s seeing the array lines of the universe.

Then, as sharp as the pressure drops, his HP goes down.

Not by much. Maybe not even by half a point, but it’s definitely not there anymore. There were no bullets. He wasn’t attacked. There was no pain. Uneasily, Red narrows his eyes at the monitor as “System 01” ticks up slowly from 0.4HP, to 0.5. Then 0.6.

The cord between them is lit up with his magic, beaming a bright crimson.

_Holy shit._

Ok, he gets it now. Red watches as the first “system” maxes out at 0.9HP -- not quite full, but better than where it had been. Sans’ breathing isn’t steady, but it isn’t reedy and shallow.

A few more adjustments are made, slowly turning dials and fixing the placements of the cords and beds until Red can almost smell the dusty-raw scent of the vines that have taken up Sans’ body. He sends a thought out into the universe, hoping they’ll both be strong.

He understands one of the major risks now; if they fail and Sans Falls, he’ll take Red with him.

Well then. Ain’t that just romantic, Red observes.

His vision blurs out from the pain as one of the water elementals moves him. Though they’re being careful as far as he can tell, Red huffs out an indignant swear. They garble something else at him. Something about gauges and painkillers interfering with HP reception. Fine. Red’s got enough residual adrenaline in his body to make up for it, but it’s exhausting.

The fire monsters move to bracket Sans’ body while two of the water elementals take up his other side, leaving space for the tethering cord between them. Coincidentally, it allows for Red to peer through, to see a bit of Sans as they begin to lay their hands down.

The third water elemental stays by him, a cool hand on his sternum. Red’s eyes are fixed to Sans’ body, his soul tight and suspended in his chest, their only lead together. His thoughts go out to the universe, to the judges, the Angel, the stars. He _hopes._

And then they start. He doesn’t expect to see Sans’ calm face screw up with pain, but there’s a coiled jolt through his system when a small roll of flames gather under the fire monsters’ hands. It doesn’t hurt, but fear curls up in his chest, bright and fierce. Red doesn’t know if it’s his own or Sans. It’s too unfocused, centralised yet erratic.

As slowly as they can, the fire monsters follow the shallow, broken expanse of Sans’ sternum. The scent of things burning starts to drift towards Red, the light metallic tang of blood and dust in the air. They’re going agonisingly slow, delicately touching upon unbroken seeds and roots within Sans’ body.

Red can feel it in a way. Or perhaps, he’s recalling the first session in broken pieces. Maybe that’s why his voice is husked out like a corpse.

Slowly, like unfurling a stubborn wrapper, his soul is tugged again. The sensation is tight, almost suffocating, but Red feels comfort beyond it. His HP barely nudges down, maybe half a fraction. When it leaves him, he sighs out like in relief. The nurse tending to him keeps their hands upon him, healing in a steady trickle like cooling rain on a hot day.

Red glances over to the healers blocking Sans from view. All he can see is a wash of gold. Flickers of orange fires and green healing magic flood into his senses like beams of light refracted off a prism. The light is small, and all their focus is on the task at hand.

Somehow, Red trusts them. He’s in one piece after all, more or less.

Over the span of several minutes, System 01’s value ticks down by another decimal. Red stares at it, the digital embodiment of Sans in agony. Because they have to be so careful, he’s gotta endure it for longer, too. The nurses don’t dare hasten the procedure. There’s too much at risk.

Red shudders out a breath after god only knows how long he’s been holding it. Almost absently, the nurse tending to him carefully strokes a thumb over his sternum as though to soothe him. He’d bite them, but that seems like a lot of effort.

Like a bobber on a fishing line, Red’s soul heaves with every slight tug. It almost makes him nauseous, so attuned to Sans drinking from his cup whenever he starts to feel himself drowning.

The corner of Red’s mouth quirks almost involuntarily. The way his HP is slowly trickled away creates a picture of Sans in his mind. Red nurtures it, wraps his arms around him, a curled up version of Sans’ heart in his own. Red’s voice cracks on something brittle and frail.

Sans holds on tightly to him. He can kind of detect it through the connection, the way Sans still reaches out to him for solace even when they’re both so broken. He seeks comfort, the warmth Red brings. Red can _feel_ it.

His throat lobs up, that final thought puncturing through whatever brand of steel resolve Red has left to keep himself together. It winches tight, the rope too tight and yet not tight enough to keep him. The noise Red makes is wretched and raw.

2HP slips away. Dangerous, considering what that means. Red stares hard at the water elementals’ backs, ignoring the tears that have collected in his eyes. He doesn’t understand the rote way the nurses communicate with each other.

Until he does. The water elemental that heals him leans forward, making Red tense, then spasm with the accompanying pain. _“He’s still there.”_

Red’s almost too scared to close his eyes against the tears that fall. The scent of wilting flowers, cauterised blood and marrow make him sick, knowing it’ll take _hours,_ not minutes, to stifle it all and burn it away.

He’s almost grateful. His soul aches in more ways than he can express, but he would feel it if Sans was in trouble, right? What’s 2HP? 2HP is nothing. 1HP is worse.

Blearily, Red eyes the monitor. He’s at 4.8HP, until the nurse heals him, bringing him back to max. Sans’ HP registers at 0.8HP, then it tanks down suddenly to 0.2HP.

The monitor beeps a warning and fear seizes at Red’s soul. He freezes, wondering if Sans was starting to slip away. It trickles down by one more decimal, then a drunken pull is taken from him, rich and vibrant like a shot of hard liquor.

 _Fuck,_ Red thinks. At the small projection in his head, Red clings tightly to Sans, digging his fingers into him, pushing his body as close to his chest as he can. _Don’t fucking scare me like that._

He wants the real thing. They’re both too fragile to stand up to anything bigger than a pinky swear, but Red longs to curl up next to Sans, holding his hand in his own.

Everything stops for a moment. Perhaps the fire monsters are second guessing themselves -- or maybe it’s just a break. The nurse above him tells Red to breathe, and Red can hear the fire monsters telling Sans the same. As though done in tandem, Red inhales the sharp suffuse of magic around them, doubled by Sans’ shivery echo.

A conscious thought. Something that Red had hoped to hear, had literally _prayed for._ Red inhales another breath, this time it hurts so much that he sobs.

He’s relieved despite them not being out of the woods yet.

Red turns his head around to see Sans as the nurses break for a few minutes to rehydrate and replenish their magic. His face is tear-streaked and cracked, but there’s a slight haze of light in Sans’ eyes, devoid of flowers.

Red notes the lack of vines that had crawled their way up Sans’ vertebrae and chokes on something that sounds close to either a sob or a laugh. His voice hurts to use, but he pushes it out for all his worth, incredulous and sublime all the same.

_“Babe…”_

Red tries to intentionally shove some of his softer emotions through the tether. He’s not quite sure if it works like that or if he’s been hallucinating this entire time, but he wants Sans to feel safe.

Not knowing if it’ll work or not, Red focuses on everything that makes them who they are. The corny jokes they tell each other, the comfortable, low-vibe way they stay, close and sweet. Sharing warmth when it gets cold. Murmuring secrets when they’re sure no one is around to hear. Soft kisses when the night sky is clear enough to see the finer constellations.

He thinks of the chickadees Sans whistles to when they come up to the kitchen window. He lets Sans see how much he likes it, how full his soul is when Sans doesn’t know he’s watching.

A break in Sans’ breathing startles the flow of emotion, and for a moment Red just feels cold. He’s alone, broken, weary and worn, too exhausted to pull through. He doesn’t know if he can do it anymore. Until he realises that the crushing loss he feels isn’t his own, but the melded erosion of hope Sans felt when he realised just who was on the cot next to him.

Red roots around in his brain for more to offset Sans’ anguish. He likes the way he slips behind Sans when he’s cooking on those rare occasions, how he breathes when he’s comfortable and free. Red shares with him the tender ache that creeps into his soul when they’re lying in bed at night, Red drifting off, and Sans measuring out the pebbly bones of his wrists when he thinks Red isn’t aware of it.

He pours himself and everything he feels through the connection. None of it is blame. Everything Red harbours for Sans is an inferno of tender actions, shown and cherished in his heart of hearts. He brings them out, uncaring that he’d kept them all for himself.

All in all, it speaks of love, of relief so torrential and quick that it rivals the bed of warmth and water they both have to endure.

And Red sends the thought out that Sans is perfectly capable of hanging on for him. That he wants him. That he _needs_ him.

Sans shudders in another breath, his voice sounding tight and worn, scratchy like Red’s is thanks to the procedure. Red watches him, wishing he could move to touch Sans’ arm or hold his hand.

The break is too short. When the elementals move in to resume their work, there’s a distinct lurch of intense fear that ripples through the connection. Red nudges the memories of stars across the parallel, of cicadas, cool air, and their bodies tangled together on their squishy couch.

By the second break, Red’s lightheaded. It’s like he’s being pulled in two different directions, drunk and trying to swim against the tide. His body works as if automatic, inhaling as deeply as he can when the cleansing fires recede and the water chases in to wash away the ash. He’s there in Sans’ heart as much as Sans is in his. And every time, relief pours into him when he hears Sans’ soft, sharp gasp.

_He’s still there._

Alright. Red sends Sans a gentle nudge to remind him that he’s here.

Third break, and it feels harder to connect to Sans.

His body’s in a pool, and he’s no longer swimming. At some point, Red closed his eyes or his eye lights faded out. This time, there’s a nudge towards him, a tentative touch upon his soul as if to say, _are you there?_

Parched, Red tries to swallow so he can grunt something out. The scent of dried grass and leaves have filtered away, the room a little cooler than before. His arms and chest feel soaked, the bandages wet and cold. When Red tries to open his eyes, the mix of colours and low light make a tangled mess that he can’t sort out, brimming at the ridges of his eye sockets until he gives up and closes them.

Too exhausted by the trials beset upon his body and soul, Red lets his inner world swallow him up, drowning out the outside flow. He sleeps.

* * *

A shallow peep comes in from his other side, long like a sigh, sounding melancholy yet light. Probably from the window of his room, warmer than the aching cold his mind’s been in lately. Consciousness flickers into being like a shorted light bulb, wrenching Red’s mind from blissful unawareness to the stark reality of his body.

It’s a slow process. The bird sing-songs again, an inquisitive little thing. Red tries to move to get his phone, thinking that maybe someone’s sending him a text. His body protests like a whole throb, like he’d fallen out of the pain tree and hit every branch on the way down, only to fall onto concrete and break all his ribs.

He huffs out when his arm doesn’t obey him. It just uselessly twitches until he realises it’s partially hung over the metal rail of a hospital bed as though he’d been reaching out. When he pulls it back, there’s another soft peep. Another twinge creeps into his chest.

Things slide into place after that. Hospital. Vines, hopes, failure. There’s the steady hum of the ventilation from the ceiling in the background as he tries to wake up, struggling with it. The world is suddenly too much.

Another sing-song peep, then a short trill.

His heart hurts. Red curls inward a little more, the small cracks left uncovered on his bones catching against the sheet. He sucks in a soft hiss.

_Trill, peep, whistle._

Did a bird get in? Red opens his eyes to the waking world. There’s a pile of bones sitting on a chair beside him, the leaden weight on his shoulder belonging to his brother’s hand. Edge is sleeping, hung over his hip, an arm bracketing him in like he was afraid to let him go.

Red flinches at the memory, but he sees the familiar shape of Papyrus, slumped over another bed, just next to where Edge sleeps.

_Three peeps in a row._

Kinda sounds like…

Chickadees.

He dares to look. Sans is facing him, looking worn and scorched, but there’s an eased tension in his grin that makes Red stare. He’s awake. He looks more like a mummy than a skeleton, but there’s full, gentle gratitude in his eyes. Seeing that Red’s looking at him, Sans gusts out a soft breath like a silent laugh.

Then he whistles, a soft, shallow thing, just like Red’s ringtone. Just like the tiny birds on their back porch.

He’s ok. They’re both going to be ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to Soul, whom encourages me day to day, and whose comment spawned this continuation. Thank you for being such an amazing friend. My life would never be the same without you ♥


End file.
